I write stories of people,
Who disappear,
Of the closest friends,
That were never near,

Of the heartfelt hope,
That was never here,
Of the crimson road,
That's, never clear.

I spent my money,
On diamond rings,
Liquor, hard drugs,
Menial things,

Things to replace,
What I'd lost,
I didn't care,
About the cost,

The hate in my heart,
A cumbersome load,
And a heavy soul,
Yet to be sold,

Off out in the night,
I began to ride,
And in the pale moonlight,
I had to confide,

Life is more,
Than I'll ever know,
Only a fool,
Would let himself go

So still I ride, to this day
Trying to find,
My own way.

Just in case I catch you looking.

It took eighteen years,
But now we're here.
Fresh and alive,
With no fear.

What is wrong,
Is coming clear,
And great change,
Is drawing near

I can't seem,
to help myself.
Not when it's time to sleep.

Worthless thoughts,
Laid on the shelf,
As I'm slowly counting sheep.

The gun comes down,
I swing my fist,
His Bullet fires,
****, it missed.

As the cold creeps in,
Underneath your skin,

As all your ground,
Turns upside down,

Left and right,
gone with the night,

And all you fear,
Is drawing near.

That I'm severely damaged and I want you to help,
Without coming across like I need you.

More pretty little problems,
How exciting.
Isn't it bittersweet,
How it's so inviting?

Again and again,
You'll never escape,
Just go get your fix.
You'll be in good shape.